


pull a breath (if you can)

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Asthma, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Stubborn but grateful patrick, protective Pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6315697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is an overprotective boyfriend who just wants Patrick to be safe, even when Patrick thinks he's being ridiculous. Pete always knew it would pay off eventually, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pull a breath (if you can)

**Author's Note:**

> based off a prompt i saw on tumblr (i think it was on saportuh's blog???? it was in an anon ask and i can't find a fucking link for it sighs). written in like 30 minutes bc i just needed to have it in my life. hope you enjoy! <3333

“Alright, I think that’s everything.”

“Did you check under the beds?”

“Yep. You got the overnight bag?”

“Yeah. Take another quick look around. I’m almost done in here.”

Pete nods and sends one last cursory glance around the hotel room to make sure he and Patrick have cleaned up everything. Their “writing session” last night had begun as just that—a writing session, complete with notebook paper and recording devices scattered everywhere—but about an hour and a half through it, Patrick had gotten _that look_ on his face, and Pete had had no choice but to make the room even messier. He’s pretty sure lube and jizz will wash out of the sheets, but it might be a little tougher to get it out of the carpet. And one of the window curtains.

What? It’s been a long week.

Pete shakes his head to himself and sighs contentedly. Even after fifteen years of doing this band and four of being in a romantic relationship with his best friend, he still sometimes has to take a moment to sit back and revel in everything. He loves his life, he really does.

As if on cue, the thing he loves most emerges from the en-suite, freshly groomed and still a bit ruddy-cheeked from their busy evening. Pete has always thought Patrick looks his most gorgeous in the mornings, even though the singer will always argue the contrary. “Hey,” Pete says softly, heart immediately melting at the sight of his boyfriend. He’s pretty sure that will never stop happening.

“Hi there.” Patrick smiles at him and sets the black overnight bag on the bed as he walks across the room. Pete meets him halfway and wraps his arms securely around Patrick’s waist, leaning in for a brief kiss. Patrick hums against his lips and tangles his fingers in the bassist’s bleached hair, eliciting a shiver.

“Mmm,” Pete murmurs when he pulls away after a few seconds. Knocking their foreheads together gently, he nuzzles Patrick’s nose with his own and grins down at him. “Don’t have time for any games this morning, babe. Thought I wore you out last night.”

“Don’t worry, you did,” Patrick chuckles, blushing a delightful shade of pink. “’S just…I like your hair.”

“I like your face.”

“Shut _up.”_

“Never.” Pete giggles and pecks the tip of Patrick’s nose before reluctantly extracting himself from the younger man’s arms. “C’mon. As much as I’d love to keep being sappy, lobby call is in ten minutes. Got all your stuff?”

“Yep,” Patrick replies, gathering up his backpack and duffel. “Everything else is still on the bus.”

Pete nods and grabs the overnight bag from the bed as he slings his own luggage over his shoulder. An automatic thought flits through his mind all of a sudden and he pauses, unzipping the overnight bag. He rifles through it, ignoring the toothpaste, toothbrushes, and razors as he searches for—sure enough, there it is. He extracts the plastic canister from the bag and holds it up, quirking an eyebrow at Patrick. “Ahem.”

“Hmm?” Patrick turns to look at him. He blinks when he sees the blue inhaler in Pete’s hand, then scoffs. “Pete, come on.”

“Why isn’t it in your backpack?”

“I _told_ you: because I don’t _need_ it.” Patrick walks over to him and snatches the inhaler from the taller man, dropping it back into the bag. “I haven’t had an attack in ages. I don’t even know why I still bring this thing on tour, honestly.”

“Because you never know when something could happen,” Pete insists. He digs the inhaler out of the bag again and spins Patrick around to unzip his backpack. He can practically hear the singer rolling his eyes as he tucks the canister safely into one of the outside pockets. “What if some asshole decides to start smoking at the barricade? That shit happens sometimes, you know.”

“Not nearly as often as you seem to think,” Patrick mumbles as Pete zips up the backpack again. He turns back around and meets Pete’s eyes again, exasperated but not angry. “I haven’t had asthma trouble in, like, three years, Pete. I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m fine.”

Pete sighs and reaches out to loop his arms around Patrick’s waist again and tug him closer. “I know you are,” he says quietly, kissing the shorter man’s forehead. “Still worry about you, though. Asthma is a fucking bitch; you never know when it—”

A gentle but firm kiss forces Pete into silence. When he pulls back, Patrick is looking up at him with gratitude in his sea-colored eyes. He smiles and shakes his head fondly. “You’re an overprotective idiot,” he says. “And I love you for it.”

“Good,” Pete smirks. “I love you too.” He reaches down, gives Patrick’s ass a gentle squeeze, then steps back and picks up his duffel again. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be the last ones down again.”

“Only because you insisted on mothering me,” Patrick retorts, elbowing the bassist in the side as they leave the hotel room.

Pete doesn’t deny it. “Just you wait, ‘Trick. One day you’ll thank me for it.”

“Not likely.”

 

* * *

 

No one’s sure who lets the guy backstage. He just ends up there somehow, mingling with the techs and stage crew and pretending he belongs there. Security figures he’s someone from the venue, judging by the ID around his neck, so they leave him alone for awhile.

Then he pulls out his cigarettes.

Smoking indoors was banned in Illinois for a reason, but clearly this guy doesn’t give a shit. He lights up cig after cig, telling the stagehands where to plug everything in and stinking up the joint in the process. The band is trying to warm up a bit, but Mr. Nicotine is becoming quite a distraction, pacing back and forth and spreading his noxious fumes thoughtlessly all throughout the backstage area.

After about twenty minutes, Pete’s almost had it. He’s pissed, but he’s keeping his head down and his mouth shut as he fiddles with his bass, occasionally coughing from the stench. He’s so glad he quit smoking six months after starting—he’s not sure how he’d managed to live with that acrid smell following him everywhere. When it appears that no one else is gonna tell this dick to get a move on, Pete sighs and sets his bass in its stand before turning to confront him…

…only to find that Patrick’s beat him to it.

They’re talking to each other on the other side of the room, about six feet apart. Dickwad has a smoldering light dangling between his lips as Patrick smiles politely and tells him to kindly fuck off. There’s a strange, uncomfortable expression on the singer’s face; Pete watches it get worse the longer he talks.

Finally, the venue guy nods, blows one final plume of smoke in Patrick’s direction, and leaves. Patrick crosses his arms over his chest and watches him go, biting his lip.

Then he coughs. Hard.

Pete jogs over to his best friend immediately, putting a hand on his shoulder. “’Trick?”

“Hey,” Patrick says breathlessly, trying to smile. A hoarse, dry cough makes that impossible, and he doubles over as three more follow. His eyes squeeze shut and he presses one hand flat against his chest as he starts to wheeze, his face turning red.

Panic flares up in Pete’s throat. “Patrick?” _Fuck no not here not here…_

“P…Pete,” Patrick manages, reaching out blindly for the other man. His breaths are coming out in short, loud gasps, and there’s a look of mild fear in his wide eyes.

“Fuck.” Pete wraps an arm around Patrick’s shaking shoulders and whisks him away from here, towards their dressing rooms down a back hallway. He knows what’s going on.

Patrick’s wheezing constantly by the time they reach the right room. Pete almost kicks open the door in his haste and sits Patrick down on a nearby folding chair before making a beeline to Patrick’s half of the room, where his backpack is placed haphazardly on the couch. With shaking hands, he digs out the old blue inhaler and rushes back to Patrick side as fast as he can.

“Hang on, baby, hang on,” he mutters as he kneels in front of Patrick, uncaps the canister, and holds it to Patrick’s lips. The singer’s clammy hand comes up to cover Pete’s and they press the button together. Patrick closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, inhaling the medicine as it flows into his mouth and soothes his inflamed lungs. Pete watches anxiously as Patrick starts to relax, his breathing quieting down and evening out. _He’s okay he’s okay he can breathe he’s okay._

The first thing Patrick says when he takes the inhaler away from his mouth is, “If you fucking say ‘I told you so’, I swear to god I’m kicking you out of the band.”

Pete can’t help but bark out a laugh at that—he knows it’s a ‘thank you’ in disguise. “Oh my god.” He grabs Patrick’s hand and tugs him down into a hug, trying to comfort both of them. Patrick’s still shaking a little, and honestly Pete is, too.

They stay huddled together like that for several minutes while Patrick catches his breath. Pete presses his nose into his boyfriend’s soft hair and mumbles, “Not gonna say ‘I told you so’, but. I totally just saved your life.”

Patrick shakes his head and clings to Pete a little bit tighter. “Love you too, idiot.”

Pete sighs and presses a kiss to Patrick’s temple. “Hush. Just breathe, honey.”

If Pete kisses the breath out of him fifteen minutes later, well. He’ll just say it was mouth-to-mouth.

###


End file.
